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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669844">villain or victim (neither or both)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent/pseuds/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent'>MisPronounce_and_MisAccent</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Blood and Violence, Character Study, Depression, F/F, Game Over Timeline, Gay Rights, Guilt, Introspection, Longing, Pining, Sadstuck with a Happy Ending lmao, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, look i was in my feelings about vrisrezi, thirteen-year-old-typical melodrama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:42:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent/pseuds/MisPronounce_and_MisAccent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>But she died. The clock called it just and, in that very outcome, the universe has confirmed that you were right. Reality has told you, this is what had to be done. Existence as a whole thanks you; with that one word, <em>Just</em>, it promises that any guilt you feel is unfounded, is needless, to you, you <em>hero</em>.</p><p>The blood has spread to your feet.</p><hr/><p>A tale of guilt and grief and love, and Terezi and Vriska at the center of the narrative universe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Terezi Pyrope &amp; Vriska Serket, Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>villain or victim (neither or both)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a flip of the coin. A glance to the future. A hope for the alpha timeline.</p><p>It is a choice— heads or tails, just or heroic, the death of all or the death of one.</p><p>It is logic, it is the weighing of the scales, it is—</p><p>It is what has to be done.</p><p>The clock, wherever it is, ticks on, pendulum swinging back and forth and tick and tock and gold and purple and—</p><p>Just. A just death. A death, in any case.</p><p>She is in front of you. She is fallen forward, orange tunic stained blue, uncombed curls fallen in tumbles over her lifeless torso. There is a hole through her stomach and you feel sick to yours.</p><p>But she died. The clock called it just and, in that very outcome the universe has confirmed that you were right. Reality has told you, this is what had to be done. Existence as a whole thanks you; with that one word, <em>Just</em>, it promises that any guilt you feel is unfounded, is needless, to you, you <em>hero</em>.</p><p>The blood has spread to your feet.</p><p>And then it is— it is <em>honk</em> and it is Karkat and it is the embrace you need but not the one you want. It is keeping a constant, blind watch on her body.</p><p>It is rushed mourning period, it is counting the deaths, it is half-glances and unspoken hopes that <em>maybe</em>, this is the timeline where you make it. <em>Maybe</em>, all those friends had to die, maybe they were the slashed-neck sacrifices on the altar to the gods you, the survivors, are meant to become. Maybe this is just how it has to be.</p><p>(You are a Seer, you have Seen, Seen the ways it could have gone, the threads that tie reality, you have Seen that this is how it had to have happened. You are also a person, and you cannot help but wonder the opposite.)</p><p>It is a pyrrhic victory, it is count— one two three four five <em>six</em> of your original twelve, and two are leaving. Leaving four of you, trecimated troops padded by two newcomers (three, if you count the carapacian.) It is the promise of three years with these six (seven) people. It is the terror of three years knowing her corpse is somewhere in the bowels of the meteor.</p><p>It is a moment, for the seven of you, for trepid excitement. For looking ahead.</p><p>But you are blind to all but the heavy scent of a blue bloodstain and an ache unquelled by your so-called success.</p><p>If there is anything ahead, you cannot see it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He is a sharp wit and a pair of glasses on an unacknowledged, near-bursting heap of unresolved emotions. He is barely-managed facade and stiff expression and flinches-when-you-touch him. He is not something you can help.</p><p>(But you are an off-kilter humor and a dragon cape on a girl that left her emotions in an unfair fight with a too-close friend. You are half-dressed and drunk on clown soda and still-thinking-about-her. You are not something he can help.</p><p>You suppose you match.)</p><p>There is solace in his company. There are jokes and can town and scribbled drawings. There are moments, when you are stacking cans and licking chalk, and he is talking to the mayor, and everything smells bright and hopeful and almost like happiness. These moments are good, they are not stilted, they make you think that he was the right choice.</p><p>(The other choice being Karkat, you tell yourself, who was never going to make you happy. You tell yourself, there was no third option, the decision was obvious, heads-or-tails, Dave-or-Karkat, no third choice in a binary, no other outcome.</p><p>A coin would have to be so very lucky to land on its edge.)</p><p>There are times when it is quiet, and it is just the two of you, those silent moments meant for confessionals, for bearing your soul to your partner. Sometimes, his lips will part, just a little, and you think he is going to say something. That he will take off the sunglasses, drop the stiff shoulders and tight smile, and tell you something that reeks of truth rather than levels of irony so complex you couldn’t rip through them even if you cared to.</p><p>He never does.</p><p>But neither do you.</p><p>It’s not a relationship, you think, as much as it is mutual quiet. And it isn’t happiness.</p><p>But it’s as close as you deserve.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>You hate him.</p><p>The clown, the murderer, the friend-foe-fiend who keeps seeking you out. You hate him like they do in pulp romances, single-minded and toxic and what you would have once called unrealistic. You hate him in a way that is not constructive, for either of you. You do not want to challenge him and build him up, you want to destroy him and tear him down. You want to kill him, no need for the universe to confirm that you’re right to, because you know you would be.</p><p>But all of this, all of it, all of this loneliness and all of this hate, is for the <em>fucking</em> alpha timeline, and however inconsistent your powers are, they work well enough to know that killing him would in turn kill everything you worked for.</p><p>So you don’t.</p><p>So you make do, tearing at him with sharp claws, slinging at him your cruelest words, and when he kisses you (you do not kiss <em>him</em>) you bite at him in lieu of kissing back. The blood in your mouth is not sweet, but you crave it anyway. You delight when he is in pain.</p><p>It isn’t the only pain you cause.</p><p>You see how Karkat looks at you, (you can <em>see</em>, now, and nothing is the better for it), trying and failing to tamp down his emotions. You see how it hurts him, you and Gamzee. You see he’s lonely.</p><p>You see Dave too, taking your new fascination as invitation to retreat into himself. You see his mouth moving as he mumbles words only he can hear. You see, he is lonely.</p><p>Maybe they can find solace in each other, but in every bit of honesty, you do not care. And you wish that weren’t true. You wish you gave a shit, you wish your vague pity of Karkat and your enjoyment of Dave’s company were <em>anything</em> in the face of this awful, encompassing, pitch-black void of <em>hate</em>. But it is bigger than them, bigger than you, bigger than anything you have ever felt in your life.</p><p>(<em>Not true</em>, some part of you counters. Not true, because nights designing costumes and days relishing in treasures. Not true, because pirate names and battles of wits and holding hands as you run and run and <em>run</em>. Not true, because her laugh and her red sneakers and the rough of her skin on yours, and like every child you heard the story of a love that transcended quadrants, wondered if you would be the next to have that. Not true, because a singularity of hate does not override a complex, interwoven, teeth-bared and tender multiplicity of love.)</p><p>But every one of those thoughts, every other emotion is gone. It is stabbed through the torso and left to die, blue blood blotting out the sun.</p><p>You are Lightless in a world of pitch, so why would eyesight mean <em>anything</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>You strike him.</p><p>You strike him again.</p><p>You lunge at him and he does not move; he stays stock-still, glaze-eyed, and serene-smiled. You can smell it, smug grin laced with plum-purple blood, smell it over the tart apple-green of the forest and candy-red of the lava. You can sense it all, smell unencumbered with the blindfold over your eyes, and now, <em>finally</em>, you can strike him down.</p><p>But he won’t fight back.</p><p>When you had imagined this — (oh, how you <em>imagined</em> this) — it was an even fight, blow-for-blow, all the anger and hatred that had boiled over, leaving the two of you, a fight to the death. And you knew you’d win, you knew you could kill him. He would be out of step, just a moment, and you would manage the blow that would end it. It would be a fair fight. An earned victory.</p><p>Nothing like stabbing a friend from behind. </p><p>You strike again, and again. Blow and blow and blood and blood, too-dark purple left spattered on the grey of your skin. There is yelling, from afar, from every direction, but most notably, from the not-her, the woman composed of a familiar blue and a trickery that is almost so.  She is too loud, he is too purple, the world is too red, and you are fighting and striking and <em>nothing</em> and you are <em>tired</em>.</p><p>He will not fight back. But nor will he die.</p><p>A scream. The sound of a body falling against pavement. The sudden extinguishing of the Page’s light shining through your blindfold. And Gamzee— no longer smelling of soporifics and smug, but of blood and hurt and fear.</p><p>
  <em>What did you do?</em>
</p><p>Your weapons fall from your hands. Sharp metallic clatter. Against the red, the purple of his blood smells almost blue. Without your rage, the valor of your victory turns to cold-blooded cowardice. Lacking sight, this platform could be that of the meteor. All of it, familiar. The pain in your gut most of all.</p><p>And then, he fights back.</p><p>Hits you. Kicks. Slams your head against the concrete. Now, the not-quite-blue blood flooding your senses is your own. Now, the pain in your stomach is physical. Now, he dangles you over the edge. The heat is scorching, your shoes near-touching the lava. Your only tie to solid ground is a man who hates you, whose too-tight grip digs into wrists and— <em>And this is how you die,</em> you think. The smell of his blood and your own, his claws buried in your skin, fear and heat and hopelessness. And missing her.</p><p>But, no. <em>You are not his to kill.</em></p><p>You push up, jump up, and reach for your weapon.</p><p>You are not his to kill. You are not his, nor Aranea’s, nor Jack’s nor the Empress’s. No. Winded, bloody, feet-scorched and body-aching, you bare your teeth. Because you, and you alone, will decide when you die.</p><p>And that’s not fucking yet.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>This cannot be it.</p><p>You are staining the ground teal with blood and tears, smell salty and raw in your nose. Your palms are scratched and sting with the sand grains and— for whatever reason— you feel this pain worse than the blunt force damage, the stab wounds, the shattering of your body thrown over such a distance. You feel this pain, and you know you are dying — that is inevitable, now. But you will still choose when it happens.</p><p>Not everyone had such a luxury.</p><p>Forehead pressed against the sand, you breathe out what would be a prayer, if there was anyone to pray to. For Karkat. Kanaya. Dave, whose death you did not witness but know just the same. For Jade, who you barely knew, and for the ones you didn’t ever get a chance to.</p><p>(You do not spare a word of your mental obituary for Gamzee. You did not kill him, and you have no need to waste guilt on wishing you did more for a man who never wanted to be better.)</p><p>This cannot be it.</p><p>Karkat, Kanaya, Dave, Jade, <em>Rose</em>— her corpse is on the ground as you go to them, Egbert and Rose’s young guardian. This can’t be right, this can’t be the alpha timeline. Everyone is gone except the three of you and this <em>isn’t right</em>.</p><p>You realize, suddenly, that you are <em>angry</em>.</p><p>You killed her so that your remaining friends would live. You spared Gamzee so that sacrifice would be worth it. You endured three years of misery and hatred and loneliness for the sake of the alpha timeline. But your friends are dead, Gamzee’s dead, and the timeline is broken, so what was the <em>point</em>? All of it, every ounce of her pain and yours was for <em>nothing</em>; your suffering only prolonged the inevitable, only relocated the place of death. You are angry, and you are sad, and you are dying, and this <em>can’t be it</em>. You will not let it be.</p><p><em>Fix this,</em> you tell him.</p><p>
  <em>Fix this.</em>
</p><p>Egbert takes your instructions, unsure but determined. You know she had a hand in making him what he is, back when you had the time and the freedom for such petty competitions in manipulation. You think, despite it all, that she did a good job on him.</p><p>You lead him out into the desert, a place with a flat slate for you to draw on. With chalk in his blue, you trace your own outline on the ground. You make yourself into a crime scene with you as both the helpless victim and the devious perpetrator — you get to decide your death, and you think it will be soon. With the final curve drawn, you stand. You admire your work, and you think about her.</p><p>There is the <em>you</em> who is not you, right now. A young Terezi, who will be handed that note, who will be freed from that awful choice, a version of you in whom your hope resides. Self-belief has not been a power of yours in the past years, but now everything, everyone, is gone, and it is all you have. Belief in you, and in her.</p><p>You look behind you and toss Egbert the chalk. He’ll need it. You turn back to your outline.</p><p>You believe in this <em>you</em>— that you will look her in the eye instead of stabbing her in the back, that you will lead her home, that you, with her beside, will unlearn every ingrained impulse towards hate and destruction, replace it all with cleverness and cunning that lends itself towards love. You imagine her on that meteor beside you, ridding its dark corridors of their loneliness, or never even giving that loneliness the air to grow. You are not sentimental creatures, either of you— it was never in your nature— but you imagine it, looking over the dream-bubble abyss without seeing a thing, warm by her side. You imagine taking her hand. Holding it. Holding her.</p><p>You smile, and fall forward, exactly the way you’d planned.</p><p>You are dying but, in your wake, you are leaving a Terezi who will be unable to fathom a world without Vriska.</p><p>That, you know, is worth it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It is waking up.</p><p>It is white eyes and unbloodied clothes and the first breath of a second existence.</p><p>It is a long grey path, it is the void of paradox space cracked through with light. It is the knowledge, somehow, that you are not the only one awakened— that the deaths are not all ends. It is the memories, shifting and growing, harkening you towards the person who has always been at the core of you, and you, at the core of her. It is the hope that maybe, <em>maybe</em>, somewhere down this path, there will be—</p><p>It is her.</p><p>It is her, though she is different. You smell, that she is older, her hair is braided, there is a new softness in the lines around her iris-less eyes. You know it is the <em>her</em> you struck down, the <em>her</em> you have spent every moment of these awful years aching for. The <em>her</em> who, despite all you’ve done, all she’s done, all that existence has done to both of you, is not turning away. </p><p>It is a single red square. It is closing the distance between you. It is her hand, rough and perfect, in yours.</p><p>It is <em>you</em>— the collective. Wordless not for lack of words, but their lack of use. You, two dead would-be gods, two wrong-doers scraping towards salvation, two voids cracked through with light. </p><p>It is you, Terezi and Vriska, holding tight at the center of a splintering universe.</p><p>And never, ever letting go.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Their In Love, and that's really all there is to say on the matter.</p><p>(also title is from "a confession" by phemiec cause of fucking course it is)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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